


Lessons

by TheGreatLibraryFangirl (Mazeem)



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Gen, Getting his Comeuppance, Original character point of view, Post-Canon, Swordfighting, how do swords work, the moral is that Dario is hot and Khalila is scary, there is no moral to this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazeem/pseuds/TheGreatLibraryFangirl
Summary: New recruit Maximillian Samwell, middle son of the sixteenth Baronet of Upton, fancies himself far too good for High Garda swordfighting classes.Senior Lieutenant Glain Wathen ensures that he is taught a lesson he'll never forget.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Lessons

New recruit Max Samwell smacked his blunted practice sword back and forth against his opponents' one. They had been drilling for nearly an hour, and his fellow recruit was panting hard and dripping with sweat in the burning Alexandria sun. 

But Max? He was bored out of his _fucking mind_. 

He'd known that the High Garda didn't focus, these days, on swordsmanship, and he'd grudgingly accepted that. He'd dutifully learnt how to strip, clean and reassemble the stun gun, the lethal gun, and the one which could fire either type of round. He wasn't the best shot in the class, but he hadn't expected to be. 

Today, however. He'd really looked forward to today. His very skin had tingled with glee when their weaponsmaster for the day had barked at them to pick up the heavy wooden sticks and start practising forms. 

Maximillian Samwell was the middle son of the sixteenth Baronet of Upton and he had always loved swordfighting. His room at home in Upton Hall was full of permanent Blanks loaded with historical manuals, and a few of the brand new printed versions too. He'd picked up his first practise sword aged five, and had nagged his parents nonstop until they splashed out on a tutor for his twelfth birthday. Soon, his skills had eclipsed all the local clubs, and he'd enjoyed their admiration. Probably their jealousy too, but he didn't care about that.

But instead of defeating all his class one by one like he'd hoped once they'd dropped the solo wooden sword and picked up blunted steel, he was relegated to helping the less skilled practise their basic drills. 

This was _such_ a _waste_ of _time_. He lost his patience with his fellow recruit, and interrupted the repetitive, clumsy drill pattern to parry with force. 

To his astonishment, Cherian Geevarghese actually let his sword fly out of his hand. Who _did_ that? 

"What the fuck, Varghese?" He hadn't even twisted to disarm! He'd just ... hit!

"Samwell!"

Reluctantly, Max came to attention. He wasn't sure what to do with the sword in his hand, so he dropped it. It was only a blunted practise sword, after all. "Yes, sergeant!"

"That's the third time you've decided to do whatever you want instead of what you've been told to do."

Rather than look over their shoulder, Max held his sergeant's gaze defiantly. They were just a recruit too. He could definitely beat them with a sword. 

"Sergeant. Not taught this rabble to present arms yet?" The cool voice of their weaponsmaster interrupted the glaring match. She was watching from the comparative shade of the courtyard arch. 

Max's Sergeant turned red. "Sir, yes sir. Not with a sword yet, sir."

The weaponsmaster stepped forwards into the bright sunlight, scooping up a practise sword from the box.

"Squad, fall in!" shouted their sergeant. "By the right, dress!"

Max obeyed the drill order as he'd been trained, but twitched his toes impatiently until it was his turn to swivel his head back towards the front. He wanted to look at the approaching officer. 

She was tall and muscular, with hair close-cropped enough to be called shaved, and she moved with steady, patient deliberation. A gold band caught the sun on her wrist, and the two pips of a senior lieutenant were on her shoulder insignia.

"Most of you haven't held a sword before today." Her gaze tracked along the paraded recruits, and Max fancied that she'd caught his eye, just for a moment. "I understand. I hadn't either, when I joined." Her steps up and down their lines were impeccably placed. Her voice was loud but somehow calm. It felt unofficial, somehow, Max mused, while he dreamt about having his own lieutenant pips some day. Much less shouting than he would have expected. 

"A sword is not a modern weapon. It is not efficient for modern warfare. You may never use one in combat. But I have seen swordsmanship save lives and take lives when necessary, and so you must be capable of its use. To present your sword with the respect required, you do the following."

She performed a quick, seamless drill, then broke it down step by step. Bring the blade up, hilt in front of your mouth, then lower it until the hilt is behind the right thigh.

There was more to it, of course. There always was. The lieutenant stalked their formation, picking on them one by one.

"Blade to the left. The _left_. Is that a known issue for you?"

"Lower it in line with your right shoulder. Stop wobbling."

Max groaned to himself. Even though he wasn't looking, he knew who that last comment was directed at. The whole squad would suffer endless arm strengths drills _again_ because of this. 

"Your sword is nearly dragging on the ground. Raise it higher. There. Treat it with respect."

With that last biting word, the lieutenant reached Max.

Immediately he started sweating like a horse. She watched in utter silence as he completed the short drill. He fixed his gaze over her shoulder and tried not to tremble with nerves. His heart was bounding in his chest. Had he performed it perfectly? Had she noticed his superior performance throughout the gruelling session? Was he finally about to receive the compliments that his skill deserved?

"I was wondering," the lieutenant began, in a friendly voice, "whether you were going to chuck your sword on the ground again, like a child discarding a toy."

Max's blood ran cold in his veins. "No, sir," he said. 

The lieutenant's eyes were like stones now. "Recruits who display respect only to those who they personally believe deserve it are not following the values of the High Garda."

"Yes, sir." His voice shook. Was he about to be kicked out? Just for having pride in himself?

"Sergeant, you will drill this recruit to present arms from 04:30 tomorrow in wood and in steel until you deem him satisfactory."

"Yes, sir!"

Max groaned at the dark look in his sergeant's eyes. He was going to pay for this.

"Name, recruit?"

Max snapped his gaze back to the lieutenant. "Recruit Samwell, sir!"

"With me, Samwell." The lieutenant executed a perfect about-turn. 

Despite the public punishment, Max's mood crept upwards as little as he hurried to follow in the lieutenant's fast footsteps. He knew that he wasn't being kicked out. Instead, he was being led into a part of the compound that he, as a mere recruit, should never enter. Down a long, carpeted corridor. This spoke of prestige. Maybe ... was he somehow being taken for praise after all? With the public chastisement out of the way?

She held a door open and jerked her head. "In." 

He tried to walk past her with his head held high, but feared it was more of a scurry. Then he flinched and tried to step backwards again. There was someone at the desk. 

"Invading your office again, Troll." The lieutenant didn't wait for a response, heading to the back of the room and rummaging through the pockets of a long coat that hung there.

"I can see." The man looked briefly at her, then back down at the map spread on his desk. Three captain pips on his epaulettes. Oh, shit. 

"I came in here to find my Codex, but if you're down here, then ..."

The captain smiled. "Upstairs is free." He reached down. There was the sound of a drawer opening, and then he put his own Codex on the desk in front of him. "I'll just tell them you're on the way. With ..."

Max bit his tongue and looked at the lieutenant. She smiled. Well. Showed her teeth.

"With someone who is exceedingly desperate to show off with a sword."

The captain shook his head. " _Every single time_ you take a turn with the recruits, Wathen ..."

Wathen. Max's head whirled as he followed her out of the door again. He knew that name, he'd just never seen her face before. Lieutenant Glain Wathen. One of the cadre who had made all those big changes to the Library, five years ago. He hadn't paid a huge amount of attention, at the time, to anyone other than her and ... oh, shit. And Lord Commander Santi. They were close, weren't they?

His heart tried to leap out of its chest. Was she taking him to the _Lord Commander_? This would either be a dressing-down to brag about for the rest of his _life_ , or maybe. just maybe. A chance to show what he could do. 

Up two flights of stairs and into what looked like an indoor practise room. 

In the centre of that wooden floor, going through some practise against a pell, was a muscled, shirtless man, covered in tattoos and gleaming with sweat. 

Normally, that combination of factors would scream 'High Garda', but Max had spent three months in the barracks so far and he could tell that wasn't true here. That hair, for one. Black, shaggy waves that fell below his ears, let alone touching the nape of his neck. He had a neat goatee, too. Entirely unregulation.

The tattoos weren't right, either. High Garda tattoos tended to be monochrome, because the lasted longer, and tended to be of squad or company. The eye of Horus for the Library was popular, too. _These_ tattoos were brightly coloured, and there wasn't an animal in sight. Lots of flowers across his chest, though. A dagger on one bicep - how cheesy! There was a feather on the inner side of the bicep, Max saw a the man turned to attack from a different angle. Oh, that was sort of animal-esque, there on his back, a set of six stylised paw prints, one of them in red and the rest in black ...

There was a sharp cough from behind him, and with horror Max realised that he'd been staring with his mouth open. He looked up at the man's face to apologise, only to flush hot all over when the man winked at him instead. 

"Stop fucking peacocking and get out of the way, Scholar, I've already got one disrespectful, egotistical idiot to deal with."

Scholar. Ah, so Max had been right. Good. 

(He was still extremely disappointed there was no Lord Commander, though.) 

"Hm." The Scholar stared between Max and the lieutenant for a moment. "Can I be helpful?" He swung his sword around in a casual, controlled, but excessively showy way.

Lieutenant Wathen scoffed. "You two would suit each other. All hung up on the valour and glory of sharp bits of metal."

"Well? How about it, little recruit?"

Max wished, all of a sudden, that he'd paid more attention to the man's swordplay and less to his body. Even now, it was difficult to be offended by that remark while noticing that the Scholar's grin and glittering dark eyes made him look almost piratical. Vaguely, Max noticed the lieutenant retrieving her Codex from her pocket and writing in it. 

"All right," he said uncertainly. 

"Don't start without me!" called a high voice from a small screened-off door that Max hadn't even noticed. "I'm nearly done! _Wallah_ , just one more letter!"

The Scholar sighed and said, quietly but very clearly, "You say ' _Wallah'_ , I say ' _Ojalá'_. You _always_ promise it's just one more thing."

"No, no, I'm here. It can wait." The screen was pushed aside and a tiny figure emerged, clad in black Scholar's robes. Max ducked his head in a quick show of respect. She looked very Scholarly. He could imagine he might end up guarding a Serapeum with her in it, one day. 

She nodded back to him, a little lower, and smiled. "You're going to put this great lump to the test, are you?"

"You wound me deeply, flower."

She ignored the other Scholar and looked at Max. "I enjoy seeing a good bout. I wish I got the chance to practise more." She heaved a great sigh. 

A strong impulse towards gallantry suddenly sizzled in Max's veins, and he looked uncertainly towards Lieutenant Wathen. All the signs were that she had brought him up here to humiliate him by thrashing him soundly, and somehow Max doubted that him volunteering to be a practise partner for this tiny, fragile-looking Scholar would deliver the same lesson. 

The lieutenant laughed at him, a full-blown belly laugh. Was it _that_ funny? "Go on. Be a gentleman."

I _am_ a gentleman, Max thought, squaring his shoulders. He cast an eye at the other Scholar, who winked at him again and waved him forwards. 

"Oh! This is fabulous!" The tiny Scholar clapped her hands together and darted to the box of practise swords. To Max's relief, she did at least pick up an appropriately sized sword. Held it well, too. 

He followed her to the centre of the room, as the other Scholar dragged away the heavy wooden target. "Shall we do some warm-ups?"

She shrugged. "I don't mind. I'll follow you."

"She's already warmed up, don't worry," the other Scholar said from behind him. Max frowned. She didn't look very warmed up. She was still wearing her flowing Scholar's robe!

He was starting to feel like there was an unspoken joke in this room, and that he was the butt of it.

He raised his sword. She raised hers. They began. 

Almost immediately, he recognised that she was much better than he'd expected. Her movements were quick, efficient and utterly purposeful. It made him grin fiercely. He loved a good opponent. 

After a fast exchange of blows and parries, he stepped back and signalled to pause. 

"Are you all right?"

"Fine!" he said immediately, stung. "I just ... you're good!"

"Thank you!" Her smile turned a bit crooked at the corners. "Good enough for you to show off to your lieutenant, do you think?"

Max swallowed. Yes. He couldn't just carry on playing around. He had to show how good he was. 

He raised his sword again. 

No matter how vigorously he attacked, he was always turned aside. Her footwork was so fluid and graceful that it almost distracted him from the unrelenting, flickering speed of her sword. 

He started to get out of breath, and his legs began to ache. He wasn't used to such dancing footwork, that was all. 

Eventually, he registered that he hadn't been able to press an attack in a while, but that she wasn't capitalising on his defensive position to finish the bout. That made him flush hot with anger. He was being played with.

The clash of their swords jarred him, now. 

He waited until the right moment, and then lunged. He was fast enough for this to work, he was certain, and he was certainly so much stronger than her that she wouldn't be able to ... 

She met him with speed and confidence, hilt to hilt, and then instead of crumbling underneath his weight, she did some strange sideways slide into a riposte that he'd never seen before, and suddenly there was her blade poised towards his face. 

"Really?" She looked almost sulky as she stepped back. "You thought I wouldn't know how to parry sheer strength?"

"You were toying with me!" he shot back. 

"I was." She handed the practise sword to the other Scholar, who had appeared at her side despite no signal between them that Max had been able to see. She looked only slightly out of breath. "Just as I'm sure you do to your fellow recruits. It's not nice, is it?"

Oh, God. He rolled his eyes and stared at the floor. She sounded like his old humanities tutor now. 

"No, it's not," he mumbled. 

"We must put our pride aside to be effective in protection that which we hold dear." Something in her voice now made him raise his head again. Reverence? It made his spine tingle. She was stood still, hands clasped in front of her, looking at him with an expression that he absolutely could not read but that felt like a blade nonetheless. Sharper than her practise blade. Sharper than his loss at her hand.

"Only in the most dire of circumstances may we need to rely solely on our own skills, without our allies beside us, supporting us and strengthening us. _Inshallah_ , I hope you never experience that abandonment and desperation. I hope you learn the value of unity, and that one day a Scholar with some unique text may trust your squad or century to save them." She bowed to him, then, quite low, and mechanically he copied, her, staring at the floor in bewilderment. 

It was the same message he had received his entire life - stop being such a selfish piece of shit and respect people whose skills differ from yours - but he'd never had it so firmly put into the context of his chosen career before.

Protecting knowledge.

Shame coiled in his gut. He could never become good enough for that if he was too obsessed with showing off. It made sense now. 

" _Tota est scientia_ ," she said, gently, as if she could read his mind. Her brown eyes had softened. 

He repeated the Library's motto back to her, then left the room. He wasn't sure how. It was all something of a blur.

"Really, _chwaer_?" he heard, faintly. " _Another_ existential crisis?"

"It's what she does with we vain, arrogant types."

"That poor boy. Shut up, both of you. I've got a letter to write."

Two days later, arms still aching from his drill punishment, Max was idly reading the Alexandria newspaper at breakfast. Something about yet another negotiation with some Scandinavian country. 

He turned the page and saw the illustration of the Archivist, shaking hands with some diplomat.

Saw the richly-dressed man stood in the background. Her husband, according to the caption.

He dropped his toast straight onto his clean trousers without noticing, and sat with his forehead on the table until the rest of his squad yelled at him.

Mustn't make them all late. 

Great. His conscience was going to sound like the fucking Archivist for the rest of his life now. He laughed unsteadily, then stood up. Time to get going. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have utterly no idea what this is. I don't think it did what I intended it to. Never mind. I hope you all enjoyed something about it. Let me know.


End file.
